


Commencement

by merle_p



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, First Time, Fix-It, Graduation, Handwavy Science, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Resurrection, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26726956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: And Peter knows that voice. Recognizes it from the voicemail message on his phone that he listens to far, far more often than he ever wants to admit, recognizes it from recordings of public interviews and ridiculous old aftershave commercials he keeps streaming on YouTube during gloomy sleepless nights, recognizes it from his nightmares, from his daydreams, except – except that’s not possible, because, well.The owner of that voice has been dead for almost two years.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 14
Kudos: 267
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Commencement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HogwartsToAlexandria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HogwartsToAlexandria/gifts).



> Thank you for reminding me how much I love these two and their on-screen chemistry. Hope you enjoy this!
> 
> (Basic math related to Peter Parker's age in the end notes, in case that is a concern.)

He misses his graduation. Because of course he does.

There’s a thing – there’s always a thing, one of those that, you know, threaten to bring about the end of human civilization _right now this very minute_ , and Peter would really like for someone to explain, preferably with diagrams, why potentially world-ending villains always choose to schedule the apocalypse for days that are the opposite of convenient for him.

“Don’t you think I deserve a bit of a break at this point?” he asks, and if his voice sounds a little whinier than he’s necessarily comfortable with, he thinks under the circumstances he can be forgiven.

“You already got a break,” Fury says, clearly unfazed, his face a familiar stony façade on the screen of Peter’s Starkphone. “You got to go to Europe, remember?”

Peter is tempted to point out that a school trip to Europe that also ended with him saving the world from a homicidal maniac he was introduced to _by Fury himself_ doesn’t really qualify as a break. Especially if you consider the whole “getting framed by said maniac for the fallout and being on the run from quite literally everyone” drama that came right after, followed by the mundane but still heartwrenching process of him and Michelle deciding they were better of as friends, followed by the equally mundane but not any less nerveracking stress of studying for his freaking finals, and … well, let’s just say it has been one of those years.

Except he has a suspicion that Fury is the kind of guy who actually considers fighting homicidal maniacs a recreational activity – a hobby even, perhaps – and so he doesn’t say any of this.

“What about the others?” he asks instead, without much hope, because he’s been here before and he’s not holding his breath. 

“The others are busy,” Fury says, predictably. Sometimes Peter really hates being right.

“ _I’m_ busy,” he protests, but Fury has already disconnected the call. Peter refrains just barely from texting him a frustrated-snark-face emoji. The Starkphone has great emojis for all nuances of snark face. The only thing stopping him is the knowledge that Fury has friends capable of wiping out his entire existence without breaking a sweat. That, and the snark face emojis always make him think of Mr. Stark, and … yeah, not going there right now.

He sits up in bed and drags a hand through his sleep-tousled curls before his gaze comes to rest on the alarm clock on his nightstand and he realizes that it’s not even six in the morning.

“Fuck my life,” he says, to no one in particular, and lets himself fall back into the pillows.

So he misses his graduation.

Instead of letting Aunt May help him into the freshly dry-cleaned, second-hand but perfectly functional gown that is waiting for him on its hanger on the back of his bedroom door, the rising sun sees him slip into his Spider-suit and leave a note on the kitchen table before he sneaks out of the house, unnoticed.

Instead of standing in line with his classmates waiting for his one-minute turn on the stage to shake the principal’s hand and throw the audience a dorky victory sign, he spends most of his morning clinging to the rafters of an abandoned warehouse in fucking Yonkers, splitting his attention between the overly confident New York hipster with a science degree who somehow managed to turn himself into a slime-slinging purple monster, and the constant stream of text messages from Ned and MJ who keep sending him photos of the ceremony, interspersed with sadface emojis and increasingly concerned inquiries IN ALL CAPS.

It wouldn’t be so bad if someone was here with him, he thinks at some point in the late afternoon, when instead of eating red velvet cake from Whole Foods he is webbing the purple villain to a broken forklift. One of the things he had always looked forward to about becoming a full-fledged Avenger, back when he was still a bumbling little spider, was the (perhaps naïve) idea that once he’d prove himself to Mr. Stark, to Director Fury, to the others, he’d never really be alone anymore. He would be part of a team.

Yet here he is, a proper superhero who has Nick Fury on speed dial, and he is quickly coming to realize that he clearly had no clue what being alone really meant.

It’s way, _way_ after midnight by the time he finally makes his way home. The apartment is dark and silent, and he carefully tiptoes through the living room before he remembers that Aunt May is staying with Happy tonight. He sighs, gives up on being quiet, and tries not to think too hard about the trail of mud and water and genetically engineered purple slime he is leaving on the rug with each heavy step.

In front of the door to his room, he pauses, one hand already on the handle. For a moment, he lets his head fall forward, presses his forehead against the wood, and allows himself to close his eyes.

Then he pushes the door open, and somewhere in the darkness a voice says: “Happy graduation, kid.”

And Peter knows that voice. Recognizes it from the voicemail message on his phone that he listens to far, far more often than he ever wants to admit, recognizes it from recordings of public interviews and ridiculous old aftershave commercials he keeps streaming on YouTube during gloomy sleepless nights, recognizes it from his nightmares, from his daydreams, except – except that’s not possible, because, well.

The owner of that voice has been dead for almost two years.

He reaches for the light switch with trembling fingers and turns on the light.

Tony Stark is sitting in Peter’s hopelessly outdated, creaking swivel desk chair, holding Peter’s chemistry textbook in his lap. He is wearing a well-tailored, no doubt obscenely expensive black suit, looking handsome and terribly out of place and very, very much alive.

Peter blinks. He raises an index finger. He opens his mouth.

“Never mind,” he says, closes the door, and turns around to walk back the way he came.

In the bathroom down the hall, he strips off his ruined Spider-suit and dutifully stuffs it into one of the Stark Industries UV-light cleaning bags Happy provides him with for this very purpose. Then he steps out of his underwear and into the shower, turns the temperature up as high as he can stand it, and lets the hot water beat the tension out of his sore muscles and the wishful thinking out of his brain.

By the time he is shampooing his hair and rinsing slime out of his ears, he has come to the conclusion that the whole thing was a simple hallucination. The realization is comforting, in a way. It was probably only a matter of time until the stress and the grief of the past year would push him over the edge, and Peter having a bit of a mental breakdown on the night of his high school graduation is certainly a more realistic scenario than … whatever the other possibility would be.

Really, it makes perfect sense, he thinks as he dries off haphazardly, dragging the towel across his hair before wrapping it around his hips. Between his (missed) graduation and the purple slime monster, it’s no wonder that Mr. Stark has been on his mind today. A good night’s sleep will make him feel better, Peter tells himself as he heads back to his room, and if not – well. He’ll deal with that when he’s not practically dead on his feet.

He opens the door to his room for the second time tonight.

Tony Stark is still sitting at his desk.

Peter stares.

Mr. Stark stares back.

“Uhm,” Peter says. “You are really here.”

“Uhm,” Mr. Stark says. He clears his throat. “You are not wearing any clothes.”

And Peter suddenly feels a little dizzy, because that is such an uncharacteristically awkward reaction that Peter knows, instantaneously and with utter certainty, that this is actually happening. The Tony Stark in his imagination would never be this awkward. The Tony Stark in his imagination is always cool and smooth and confident.

“I didn’t think I’d need to get dressed,” he says, his voice wavering somewhere between accusatory, incredulous, and straight-up hysterical. “Because I didn’t think anyone was here.”

Stark gives him a strange look. “So when you were just here a moment ago,” he says slowly, “you thought I was what, a ghost?”

“A hallucination, really,” Peter admits, far too honestly. He swallows.

“You were supposed to be dead.”

“I was,” Stark says thoughtfully, and the plain admission punches the air out of Peter’s lungs, as if he hasn’t had more than a year to come to terms with that reality.

“I think. For a while, anyway. Clearly it didn’t stick.” Stark shrugs, a demonstratively casual gesture. “Seems like not even death is willing to put up with me forever.”

A reassuring platitude is already on Peter’s tongue when what Mr. Stark said really sinks in. “Oh fuck,” he says, his stomach plummeting. “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, so you heard that Ms. Potts …”

“… has a new boyfriend, yes, I know,” Stark nods. He doesn’t look terribly sad; a little wistful perhaps.

“It’s fine. He doesn’t seem to be a complete asshole – not more than me, anyway, though I admit that it’s a high bar.” He toys with one of the pencils on Peter’s desk.

“To be honest, I had some time to think since I came back from … where I was, and all things considered, this is probably for the best.”

“So … where _were_ you?” Peter asks. He doesn’t know whether he’s really ready for the answer, but it seems like a relevant detail, and still much, much safer than any of the questions about Mr. Stark’s failed marriage he might want to ask.

Stark presses a flat hand against the edge of the desk and pushes, making the chair swivel gently back and forth.

“We aren’t sure,” he says. “Absolute space, maybe? We have some theories but there’s too much we still don’t know about the Infinity Stones to fully understand all of it.”

“Wait,” Peter says, and part of his brain is dimly aware that between ABSOLUTE SPACE and INFINITY STONES, this might not be the most important piece of information, but it’s the one his mind chooses to latch onto anyway.

“ _We_?”

The room suddenly feels a little chilly, and Peter is pretty sure it’s not just because he’s wearing a towel and nothing else.

“Who’s we?”

“Banner, obviously,” Stark shrugs, as if the answer should be self-evident. “Strange. Shuri. You know, science and magic and all that.”

“Oh,” Peter says weakly. “So when Fury said that everyone but me was busy, what he meant was … “

“… they were trying to figure out if I was really, well, me,” Stark nods. “Not an evil imposter. Not about to turn into dust.”

Peter wraps his arms around his chest.

“And how long have they been working on this?” he asks, his tongue heavy in his mouth. “How long have you been back?”

Stark frowns, though it’s hard to tell if he is taken aback by Peter’s tone or just trying to get his dates straight in his head.

“Four weeks, give or take?” he finally says, moving his hand in a so-so gesture.

“You came back from the dead four weeks ago,” Peter repeats slowly. “Four weeks, and … you had time to hang out with Ms. Potts’ new boyfriend and make sure he isn’t a dick, but you couldn’t …”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

“It didn’t occur to you to send a text or something? You know, to tell me that you weren’t actually dead?”

Stark pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh, I definitely considered it,” he says dryly. “Daily, even.”

“So then why?” Peter doesn’t even try to hide the hurt in his voice. “Because I’m too young to know? Not smart enough to help?”

“Because,” Stark snaps, “because I saw you die, and then you saw me die, and there was no way I was going to show up here before I was reasonably sure that I wouldn’t go on a sudden killing spree or …” He throws up his hands in frustration. “… or I don’t know, disintegrate in the sunlight. You are too – “

He breaks off abruptly, clamping his mouth shut, and then looks up at him with an expression Peter might call pleading on anyone else.

“Kid,” he sighs. “I’m sure I deserve it, and really, I’m happy to see you one way or another, but are you just going to stand there and yell at me all night?”

And wow, way to take the wind out of his sails. Because what is Peter supposed to say to that other than no, in fact, yelling at Mr. Stark is about the last thing he wants to do, because Stark was dead, and now he’s not, and what Peter really, _really_ wants to do is touch him to reassure himself that he’s actually, truly here.

So he does just that. In two long steps, he crosses the room and throws his arms around Stark’s neck.

For a very, very brief moment, Stark freezes - and then he lifts his arms and carefully puts his hands on Peter’s back, returning the hug. Peter chooses to interpret that as encouragement, not that he really needs it: He clings to Stark shamelessly, his face pressed into the curve of Stark’s neck, and exhales a sigh that may or may not sound a little like a sob. Stark’s palms are firm and warm against Peter’s spine, his pulse a steady, reassuring beat underneath Peter’s cheek, and Peter is just starting to wonder if he can get away with staying like this for the rest of the … forever, when Stark starts to shift in his seat.

This is also the moment when Peter realizes that somehow, without even noticing, he has positioned himself sideways in Stark’s lap, and that this was perhaps not the smartest move, considering his current state of undress.

“Not that I don’t prefer this to the yelling,” Stark murmurs into his hair, his fingers twitching briefly against Peter’s back as if he is trying to remove them but doesn’t quite succeed. “Because I definitely do. But I just came back from the dead, and I _missed_ you, and you aren’t wearing any clothes, and did I mention the part where I missed you and you don’t have any clothes on?”

He moves backwards a little, just enough to look Peter in the face, though with the position they are in, it’s not like he is going very far.

“And I feel like I should mention,” Stark continues tightly, “that I am not sure I can guarantee for my actions if you don’t put a little more distance between us than the nothingness of this threadbare towel. If you know what I mean.”

 _No, I don’t know what you mean,_ Peter’s first instinct is to say _._ Because he can barely wrap his mind around the fact that Stark is alive, much less the notion that he would ever hint at what Peter thinks he may have just implied – especially when even the Tony Stark in his imagination was never quite daring enough to go there, no matter how much Peter would prod him with his mind.

And yet. There is no mistaking the solid realness of Stark’s body under his, or the way he is looking at him right now, and perhaps Peter _has_ grown up a little because what he says instead is:

“Is this a new thing?” He tries his best to sound rational and level-headed, and not like he’s on the verge of freaking out for a dozen different reasons. “You know.” He tilts his head meaningfully. “Like a post-resurrection development? Did you tell Dr. Banner about this?”

“What? _No_.” Mr. Stark stares at him, aghast. “No, I did not tell Dr. Banner, Jesus fucking Christ.” He deflates, his shoulders dropping. “And no,” he adds wryly. “It’s not a new thing. This,” he says, gesturing with his index finger between Peter’s chest and his own, “is not a mysterious side effect of resurrection, that’s just a side effect of me being my usual fucked-up self, although I’m honestly not sure that makes it any better.”

He offers Peter a self-deprecating smile that stands in odd contrast to the look he is sending him from half-lidded, dark eyes. 

“It is entirely possible though,” he starts, then visibly winces when Peter adjusts his position, and curses under his breath. “It’s entirely possible,” he continues, through clenched teeth, “that my self-discipline isn’t what it used to be, so you should probably …”

“Self-discipline is overrated,” Peter blurts out, as quickly as he can before his own self-discipline has a chance to kick in.

“Excuse me, what?” Stark gapes, incredulously. “That’s your – What happened to the – what _happened_ to you that you can manage to sound like the world's most improper bowl of fortune cookies while sitting practically naked in my lap?”

“You happened,” Peter snaps, then blushes when Stark stares at him in shock. 

“I mean,” he continues, more softly. “You died. You died, and – ” He swallows. “And I spent the last two years agonizing over all the things I should have asked you or told you but was too afraid to say, and if I’d known earlier that _this_ was on the table …”

“Oh no,” Stark pointedly shakes his head. “No-no. It most definitely wasn’t on the table. Just because I thought about it doesn’t mean that I would have … “ He trails off and throws up his hands in defeat.

“You know what,” he says, “fuck that. Self-discipline is overrated.” 

And then he puts his hands on Peter’s face and kisses him.

Peter could say that it’s a gentle, chaste, careful kiss. But that would be a lie. Stark kisses him hungrily, almost desperately, his teeth scraping against Peter’s bottom lip, his fingers finding their way into Peter’s hair, and all Peter can do is open his mouth to give him better access and try not to faint from the sudden sensory overload.

It’s almost too much, too good, too close to everything he’s wanted but considered firmly out of his reach, and for a fleeting moment he is gripped with sudden renewed fear that this may after all just be a dream. _Please don’t let me wake up_ , he finds himself thinking, absurdly – but then Stark’s tongue slides against his, sending a spark through his body all the way down to his toes, and amidst his efforts not to come on the spot right then and there, he quickly loses that train of thought.

He can’t quite stop himself from whining just the tiniest bit when they break apart eventually, and Stark smiles, apologetically amused.

“Downside of being alive,” he murmurs, his forehead coming to rest against Peter’s. “I actually have to breathe occasionally.”

“That’s okay.” Peter exhales shakily. His fingers are twisted in the collar of Stark’s jacket, and he is probably ruining the exquisite fabric, but there is no way he is going to let go.

“I am really, really glad you are alive.”

Stark huffs a laugh. “I am starting to get that,” he says, his thumb tracing Peter’s cheekbone, then trailing down the side of his face until his palm rests against Peter’s clavicle, fingers curling loosely around his neck. “And here I kept telling myself that you would surely run screaming if you knew what was going on in my head.”

“Definitely not running,” Peter says firmly. “I told you. If I had known this was on the table …”

“No, no, you can’t say things like that,” Stark protests, shaking his head in something akin to horror. “It’s a good thing you didn’t tell me this two years ago,” he adds wryly. “It might have given me some really terrible ideas.”

“Like … what?” Peter asks, intrigued, and feels a shiver run down his spine at the sudden speculative gleam in Stark’s eyes.

“Well, speaking of things that are on the table ...” Stark says ominously, sliding his hands slowly down Peter’s sides.

“Huh?” Peter makes, a little preoccupied with the sensation of Stark’s fingers against his skin, and then yelps in surprise when strong hands slide underneath his thighs and lift him up to swiftly deposit him onto his desk.

He flails, the damn towel finally comes undone and flutters down onto the carpet, papers are flying everywhere, a ballpoint pen rolls over the edge of the desktop, and just like that, Peter is sitting bare-ass naked on top of his freaking homework with a hardon that is impossible to hide. Something that may or may not be his math book is digging into his right glute, and this would have the potential to be seriously awkward if not for the fact that Anthony fucking Stark is staring up at him with an intensity Peter suspects he usually reserves for unsolvable engineering problems or really, really expensive champagne.

“Sorry,” Stark says ruefully. “I usually have smoother lines than this. But having you right here in all your naked glory is making it a little difficult to think.”

“I think you are doing alright,” Peter says weakly. His mouth is dry. 

Stark laughs silently. “Oh really,” he says. “I’m glad my rusty seduction methods find your approval, Spider-Man.” His expression turns serious. 

“You do know you can tell me to stop, though,” he says, and Peter stares at him, genuinely apalled.

“Why would I stop you?” he asks incredulously, and Stark gives him a look that is both amused and almost unbearably fond. 

“Because this wasn’t exactly part of the plan,” he says dryly. “Believe it or not, but I was really just planning to congratulate you on your graduation when I came here. Maybe see if you would want a hug. I definitely didn’t plan on giving you a blowjob on your desk the first time I’d see you again.”

“I mean,” Peter says. “Me, I was just planning to go to my commencement ceremony today, and possibly feel sorry for myself that you wouldn’t be there to see it, so – wait.” He pauses, blinks. “What did you just say?”

“Unless you are opposed to blowjobs, of course,” Stark says conversationally, and Peter suppresses a groan when Stark’s hand settles high on his left thigh.

“Like, theoretically?” Peter asks, dazed and more than a little distracted by his body’s overwhelmingly enthusiastic response to Stark’s touch. 

Stark has the nerve to actually roll his eyes at him. “I was thinking empirically,” he says wryly, letting his other hand rest on Peter’s right knee, “but feel free to talk theory while I do this."

Without further ado he leans in and wraps his mouth around Peter’s cock, and from one second to the next theory is the absolutely last thing on Peter’s mind. 

Peter does his best not to embarrass himself by coming in under five minutes, but the truth is that his concept of time goes out the window with his grasp on theory the moment he feels Stark’s beard against the inside of his thigh. He is feeling untethered, too emotional, hypersensitive – there no way he is going to last when every nerve, every fiber in his body is attuned to the firm pressure of Stark’s hands on his hips, the slick warmth of Stark’s mouth around his cock.

His breath is coming in stuttering little gasps. He clenches his fingers around the edge of his desk, bites his bottom lip to stop himself from saying all the ridiculous things that are threatening to spill from his mouth, and then Stark’s tongue does something truly obscene to the tip of Peter’s cock and he is gone. His hips jerk, his toes curl, he says … something that he hopes is just a warning and not a truly embarrassing confession, and Stark coaxes him through his climax, not letting up until his cock is soft and his heartrate slows down.

“Look at you,” Stark says hoarsely, once his mouth is not otherwise occupied anymore. He stares up at him, licking his lips, and Peter’s cock makes a feeble but earnest attempt to rise again at the sight.

“If this is what I get for dying and coming back to life, I’d almost be willing to do it again.”

“Please don’t,” Peter says hastily. “In fact, if you could avoid ever dying again, that would be great.”

“I promise I’ll do my best.” Stark reaches for Peter’s hand and lifts it to his lips to press a kiss to his knuckles, and _fuck_ , Peter might actually be about to cry. 

He swallows and blinks away the treacherous wetness clinging to the corners of his eyes.

“What about you?” he asks, clearing his throat. He tries to gesture with the hand Stark is still holding but instead somehow ends up linking their fingers together. “I can – do you want …”

“I’m not saying I’m not tempted,” Mr. Stark says and gently squeezes his hand. “But you look a little exhausted,” he continues, reaching up with his other hand to brush a strand of hair away from Peter’s face.

Peter allows himself to lean into the touch and suppresses a yawn. “Fury woke me up at six in the morning,” he complains, “and then I did take out a slime monster all by myself. But I can still – ” He rubs his eyes. There is no denying the fact that the adrenaline is quickly fading and he is inevitably about to crash.

Stark chuckles. “I’m not sure my fragile ego would survive you actually falling asleep on me,” he says lightly. “So how about you reciprocate next time. Believe me, I have plenty of mental images to tide me over until then.”

“So there _is_ going to be a next time,” Peter says inquisitively, trying not to sound quite as elated as he feels at the idea.

“Unless you come to your senses overnight and realize that this was just a moment of overexcitement in the face of a miraculous resurrection on your end,” Stark says wryly, “then yes, I expect there will be a next time, since experience shows that we are both absolutely terrible at the whole self-discipline thing.”

He lets go of Peter’s hand and bends down to retrieve the towel from the floor. 

“Right now I should go though,” he says, carefully draping it over Peter’s bare thighs. “Let you get some sleep.”

“But – ” Peter does not _literally_ cling to Stark’s lapels but it’s a damn near thing. Some of the anxiety must show on his face, because Stark gives him a curious look.

“But what?”

“What if you …” He trails off helplessly. “What if something happens overnight?”

Stark frowns. “What do you expect to happen?”

“I don’t know!” Peter throws up his hands. “The kind of thing that happens to people like us. What if … you dematerialize overnight? Or get kidnapped? Or a meteor hits New York?”

“I don’t think any of these events could seriously stop me from getting my hands on you again now that I’ve done it once,” Stark mutters, then drags a hand over his face as if he’s wrestling with himself.

“You could come stay with me,” he finally says carefully, “if it would make you feel better.” He glances around the room.

“I would offer to spend the night here,” he adds, “but I don’t know how I’d feel in the morning about being faced with the evidence that I actually got you off on top of your goddamn school books. Plus, no offense, but I think I have a better bed than yours.”

“And no aunt that might walk in on us,” Peter adds helpfully, and Stark snorts, darkly amused.

“There’s that.”

“You make a convincing case,” Peter says, and in a moment of reckless courage allows himself to lean in and kiss his nose.

Stark shakes his head in exasperation, but his smile sort of ruins the effect.

“I’ll throw in breakfast too,” he says, “how’s that? We should celebrate with pancakes. After all, it sounds like you missed your official graduation party today.”

“That’s alright,” Peter shrugs, unbothered. “Ned and MJ sent me pictures.” He slides off the desk, wincing at the sound of tearing paper. He looks back over his shoulder and discovers that half a page from his math book is sticking to his butt. 

Gingerly, he pulls the ruined page off his skin and drops it in the paper trash underneath the desk without a second glance. 

Oh well. He’s officially done with high school math.

It’s time for the next phase of his life to commence.

**Post-Credits Scene**

“Mr. Parker,” Fury says, his voice thunderous, when Peter finally manages to roll himself over to the edge of the bed and dig the incessantly ringing phone out of the back pocket of his rumpled jeans.

“We have been trying to reach you. Where the hell are you?”

Peter squints at the screen. “Mr. Fury, no offense, but you really need to stop calling me this early in the morning.”

Fury raises his eyebrows. “It’s past eleven, at least on the East Coast. Last time I checked, that was your time zone.”

“Huh,” Peter says and throws a glance at the ridiculously high-tech clock on the wall. “So it is. What’s up?”

“We need you to come to HQ,” Fury says. “There’s a thing.”

“Oh yeah?” Peter says, then swallows a moan when he feels the sole of a bare foot trailing along his calf. “Uhm, sorry, but not right now. Kind of busy here, bye!”

“Wait –“ Fury starts, but Peter ends the call before Fury can say anything else.

This time, he does remember to turn off his ringtone before he drops the phone onto the pile of clothes next to the bed. When he rolls back onto his side, Mr. Stark - Tony - is staring at him with scandalized delight.

“Did you really just hang up on Nick Fury?” he asks. “I’m genuinely impressed. That’s the kind of audacity I would expect from myself, not from Spider-Man.”

Peter shrugs, unconcerned. “I’ll call him back later,” he says and wriggles around on the bed so he can rest his head on Tony’s chest.

“But I did graduate yesterday,” he says, and closes his eyes as Tony's fingers are starting to trace gentle circles on his back. 

“And right now, I really think I deserve a bit of a break.”

**Author's Note:**

> Peter is born on August 10, 2001. This story takes place in late spring/early summer of 2025, almost two years after End Game and one year after Far From Home. Thus legally Peter is just shy of 24; or, if you substract 5 years for the "blip", he is almost 19.


End file.
